would you sell your soul for love?
by sanskrits
Summary: — in her mind's eye she sees fantasies, of upturned noses and cruel eyes and blood dripping from her throne, and this man will give them to her.


**written for the golden snitch 'the snitch cup'**

 **school: hogwarts**

 **points: 10**

 **animal claimed: unicorn**

 **prompts:**

 **(word) mundane**

 **(dialogue) "If you were any thicker, you'd be a Troll's student."**

 **(color) obsidian**

 **(word) agility**

 **(object) coat**

 **(color) ink-blue**

 **stage: training**

 **word count: 1124**

 **a/n: on with stage two, i'm ahead of everyone else, hello, snitch cup! (i sound really bitchy when i'm not actually, i just want to win, lol)**

. . .

Bellatrix Black is very ambitious, ruthlessly so. She wants everything.

"Bellatrix, Bellatrix," clucks her mother imposingly, "you mustn't be so blunt."

"Of course, Mother," Bellatrix clucks back, "I will veil my murderous desires with promises of tea and sugar."

"Wonderful," says Druella Black, and Bellatrix can hear her heels click as she walks away, her coat swishing in the air.

. . .

Bellatrix gets sorted into Slytherin almost immediately.

"Wonderful," Druella Black writes back to her.

Narcissa joins soon after, and so does Andromeda. Bellatrix is not fond of Andromeda. She is too rebellious and too sympathetic to _ever_ be a Death Eater.

Bellatrix intends to be a Death Eater. She knows of the organization — all purebloods do. And soon she knows her arm will be marked with the symbol of her Lord, but it is not enough.

Bellatrix wants to be the Lord, she wants them to bow to her and say, "My Lady," she wants them to scream when she gets near; Bellatrix _wants._

. . .

Rodolphus Lestrange is a blubbering fool, Bellatrix knows as soon as he smiles at her in a manner distinctly similar to a love-sick puppy. His obsidian hair is in a fringed style that Bellatrix finds ridiculous, with ink-blue eyes that glimmer when she comes near.

Of course, Rodolphus expects her to be even more of a blubbering fool, being a woman. Bellatrix thinks she will disappoint in that manner — she doesn't mind. This is the fool she is to marry someday.

This is the fool she is to murder someday.

. . .

Bellatrix becomes a Lestrange. She becomes a widow soon enough, by hand of poison and tea.

"Wonderful," croons her Lord with admiration. "Rodolphus was an idiot. I suspect he might've been a half-blood."

It is not enough, of course — nothing ever is, because Bellatrix wants everything.

. . .

She stumbles upon a small little peddler's shop that gives off a distinct magical aura; of course Bellatrix knows that the man inside is not quite a peddler.

"What might I help you with?"

"You might help me with a murder. Of a man who cannot be murdered."

The man's eyes, small just like the rest of him, sharpen. "Bellatrix Lestrange," he whispers. "You wish a murder...of your own Lord, no less?"

"I am aware you're magical. Aware of what you can do."

"So, tell me, Bellatrix — would you sell your soul for love?"

"For _love?_ " sneers Bellatrix. "Love is overrated. Of course not, do you think me a fool?"

"Then _what,_ pray tell, would you sell your soul for?"

Bellatrix ponders a moment. "I think...greatness, power. That is worth my soul."

The man smiles. "You have the right ideals for this experiment." He points a small black wand at her, and murmurs some sort of incantation — Bellatrix gasps, as a thin, spindly black line emerges out of her torso, and it curls into itself forming a perfect sphere. Now, Bellatrix is no longer mundane.

There's something else, too. Bellatrix feels empty. She has never felt empty.

"That," explains the man, "is your soul. Your only hindrance — now you might do what you wish to do. But at a price. I will keep the sphere."

It is not enough, thinks Bellatrix.

"At a price? Oh, no, little peddler. See, now I'm powerful, great, my only hindrance gone." She withdraws her wand carefully from her robe. " _Avada Kedavra._ "

Bellatrix has rid herself of her only hindrance, but this time she cares not for it. Still it is not enough, because still she wants _everything._

. . .

It is only a matter of time now, Bellatrix knows.

"What are you planning, Bella?" wonders Narcissa.

"Freedom," Bellatrix answers.

"Oh, Bellatrix — I feel like you've been different, ever since you left that night and came back, more — I don't know, empty? Ruthless? Bella, I think, whatever you're planning, I think you might wonder, might wish to reconsider...I feel like you'll get in too deep, too fast if you go on with it…"

"Quiet!" snaps Bellatrix. "If you were any thicker, you'd be a Troll's student. This, Cissy, this is the way I want to be! And if you tell _anyone, even a soul_ , I won't hesitate to _Avada_ you!"

"Bella!" Narcissa gasps, offended. "You underestimate my loyalty! And you — you have no loyalty, no sense of duty, at all! To _Avada_ your own sister?"

"I have no loyalties," says Bellatrix, "but to my Lord, Cissy. It would do you well not to test me."

She's lying, of course, but who _doesn't_ Bellatrix lie to these days?

. . .

Draco gives a little cough, and tells her, "Aunt Bellatrix, the Dark Lord wishes to see you."

"Thank you, Draco," replies Bellatrix with false kindness.

She makes her way to the dining room, where the Lord himself waits on a chair. He's so terribly deformed, with too-pale skin and fingers that are too long and a nose that is too absent, and eyes that are too red. Everything about him is _too_ and it is very unappealing. But still Bellatrix flushes and curtsies and bows with agility, to make sure he knows she is falsely loyal to her Lord.

"Bellatrix," he says softly, "I would like to see you, in my chambers."

She knows what is going to happen, yet she feigns confusion. Now, she knows, is her time, her time to shine and to strike. "Yes — yes, of course, my Lord."

Once they are in there he locks the door.

"My Lord," whispers Bellatrix, "what is all this?"

"A reward," her Lord says simply. "For your loyalties."

And then he drags her forward and kisses her roughly on her lips. He is surprisingly soft, and unsurprisingly hungry for her as Bellatrix complies easily and with fake eagerness.

In her mind's eye she sees fantasies, of upturned noses and cruel eyes and blood dripping from her throne, and this man will give them to her.

So Bellatrix strikes, a bite of poison and desire and a bite he will take gladly again and again.

"Oh, my Lord, how I've waited —"

He cuts her off, saying, "Do not speak, Bellatrix, and ruin the moment."

And so she does not, except at the end of their session when he is vulnerable and thrumming with desire — it is then when she withdraws her wand again, gently, the way she had done with the peddler, and sneers, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

. . .

"Mercy, my Lady."

"I told you, Bella —"

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

"My Lady, we bring news."

No, Bellatrix would not sell her soul for love — but power, greatness? That is true, and it is for that which she pays the price — utterly soulless and remorseless, she paints her silver throne red with blood.


End file.
